Killer Coin Page 6

  Lukas’s head jerks up. “The old summer cabin?” His reedy voice cracks. “She wouldn’t go there. It’s falling apart. Nobody ever goes out there.”

  “But the coins,” says Gerard. “Maybe for once Daphne actually listened to Isobel. Perhaps she went to fetch them and met some accident. Some fall or . . .” He fiddles with the hem of his white coat. “Perhaps a stroke. Dementia . . . She is aged, your mother . . .”

  Lukas passes his beanie from hand to hand. “Wait. What coins?” he asks.

  “Your father’s gold coins. His collection. He left them in the safe in that old cabin. A ridiculous place, of course. Totally insecure. Isobel found some old papers of Walt’s and questioned Daphne, who’d forgotten all about them. Imagine! Just forgetting! It caused quite a scene at Tuesday’s dinner.”

  Lukas twists around. From where I stand, peering around the corner, I can now see his face, eyebrows high in amazement. “I remember those coins!” he says. “Dad used to show them to me when I was a kid. He loved those things. They were like pirates’ treasure.” He stops twisting his beanie. “I just figured they were in the bank. You mean all this time . . .” He laughs. “God, that’s ridiculous! They were just sitting in that crappy summer cabin?”

  “Exactement!” says Gerard. “Some of those coins are worth thousands, even tens of thousands of dollars! In that unprotected cottage! And now Daphne has gone off and nobody else knows the code to the safe. Unless she went out there? The cabine . . .” He rubs his hands on his pants and swallows nervously. “Isobel cannot remember how to get there. Do you know the way? It is quite isolated, no?”

  Lukas is still shaking his head in amazement. “I’ll go,” he says. “It’s in the middle of nowhere, but I’m pretty sure I can still find it.” He tugs on his beanie. “But I highly doubt Mom went there.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugs. “She hasn’t been in years. It’s a dump. She’s probably gone someplace nice with her new man. Someplace sunny . . .” He tilts his beanie. “Look, I gotta go, Gerard. Can I get the bread?” He laughs again. “And the dough? Haha!”

  Gerard obviously misses the joke. He instructs a passing waiter to fetch some herb bread.

  As Gerard and Lukas come closer, I retreat. I grab a menu off a counter and bury my face in it. There’s no need. They walk past without glancing my way.

  Peeking over my menu, I see Gerard pull two bills from the till. He looks sour, Lukas elated. I’m too far away to hear what they’re saying. Lukas pats his brother-in-law’s shoulder, pockets the money, and heads for the door. There’s a spring in his step. Outside, he turns right, toward the harbor.

  When I get back to our table, our mains have come—and are mostly gone. “Sorry,” says Quinn, her cheeks full of my Flamiche. She leans closer and lowers her voice. “These portions are tiny! No wonder French women are so skinny.”

  “Um, no problem,” I say. I cut into the surviving sliver. The leek tart, like the mussels, is amazing.

  As I chew, I feel Quinn studying me. “What just happened?” she says. “You look excited.”

  Even more than usual, I’m amazed by how observant Quinn can be—and gratified she’s taking an interest. I decide to fill her in on what I just overheard, adding some backstory about Daphne Dane’s new romance.

  “Hmmm, so Daphne’s daughter thinks her new man’s just after her cash?” says Quinn. “That’s sad.”

  “Yes.” I had the same thought. But who knows? Is Stephen a grifter or do Isobel and Gerard merely begrudge Daphne her happiness, scared some of their inheritance might end up with her younger lover?

  Quinn pats at her lips with a napkin. She looks thoughtful. “I guess that’s one good thing about not being loaded. You don’t have to worry about guys chasing you for your fortune.”

  This makes me think of Josh, whose wealth is actually an obstacle, creating a power imbalance that makes me uneasy. Wealth is the ultimate pink elephant. Everyone notices but nobody says anything, acting like it doesn’t matter. Am I just deluding myself in thinking Josh’s lavish lifestyle isn’t part of his charm? Would I still want him if he lost everything and lived in a tin-roofed shack? Money bestows power, which brings confidence. Confidence is attractive. Without his fortune, would Josh be someone else? Someone more ordinary? Would that much money change me? The vast difference in our net worth raises all kinds of unsettling questions. I’m not sure I’m cut out to be the lady of his manor.

  These thoughts are interrupted by Quinn. “I haven’t asked,” she says. “But how’s it going with Colin?”

  My best friend adores Colin and doesn’t much care for Josh. She wishes I’d just hurry up and choose the guy she likes, settle down, and produce a playmate for Abby.

  “Good,” I say, only to think of his beautiful new partner, Miriam. “He’s just been really busy at work.” Did this sudden new busyness coincide with Miri’s arrival?

  My response must be off because Quinn tilts her head. “Oh yeah?”

  “Well, he has a new partner,” I say. “Who looks like a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model.” I’m embarrassed to even admit this is an issue. But it is. How could it not be? Miriam—Miri—is beyond gorgeous.

  Quinn takes a sip of wine. “Oh yeah. Have you talked to her?”

  I nod. “She seems very nice,” I admit.

  My best friend studies me. “Colin’s crazy about you,” she says. “But it’s got to be tough for him.”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “Well, you haven’t committed. You’re still seeing Josh, aren’t you?”

  I think of my last conversation with Josh, the night before last, after I finally left Daphne’s. He’d sounded annoyed and told me we’d make it another night. I ended up eating cereal standing up in my kitchen, feeling guilty for missing our date and put out by his lack of concern. I don’t usually bail at the last minute. He must have known it was important yet asked nothing.

  Again, my best friend must detect something in my response—or lack thereof—because she looks thoughtful. “Trouble there?”

  I hope that’s not a hopeful glint in her eyes, but suspect it is. Quinn finds Josh self-absorbed—and maybe some part of me does too. Other parts, however, feel a buzz whenever he’s close. Beyond his success and good looks, there’s just something about him. You can’t buy chemistry. Can you?

  “We haven’t talked since the night we were meant to come here,” I admit.

  Quinn swallows her last gulp of wine. “Colin had your back that night,” she says. “Coming over to look for Daphne.”

  I know she’s right but don’t want to hear it. “Dessert?” I say, to change the subject.

  It takes a minute to catch Jean-Luc’s attention. He doesn’t even ask if Quinn wants dessert but just hands her a menu and steps back, lest she jump him. I take a menu too. Being naturally skinny, I eat dessert whenever I want. Plus I’m hungry. Quinn stole most of my dinner.

  After deciding—crème brûlée for me, mousse au citron (with extra whipped cream) for Quinn—we sit in silence for some minutes. I’m thinking about Josh and Colin. I know Quinn’s thinking about Abby. When a phone beeps nearby, Quinn’s onto hers like a seagull on a dropped donut. I bet she’s dreading—and hoping—it’s Bruce begging her to come home. Peering at the screen, she looks confused, then crestfallen. “Not mine,” she mutters.

  I dig my phone out of my purse to find a message from Josh. My heart lifts.

  Hi. Want to go out on the boat tomorrow? There are two little emojis: a sailboat and a smiley face in sunglasses.

  “It’s Josh,” I say. “Inviting me out on his yacht, tomorrow.”

  Quinn’s full lips tighten. Just two months ago Josh and I were attacked on that very yacht. While boating doesn’t hold great memories for me, Josh runs a yacht charter business. If we do have a future together, I’ll need to get over my misgivings. Josh loves being out on the water.

  “I’m going to go,” I tell Quinn.

  She nods. But it’s a disapproving
nod. For what seems like a long time, she chews. Finally, she swallows. “Where to?” she asks.

  shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe a cruise around the Gulf Islands.”

  At just that moment the waiter reappears with our desserts. The dishes are tiny but beautifully presented. “This is the chef’s special,” he says, setting my crème brûlée before me. “The raspberry coulis is to die for.”

  As Quinn and I dig in, my thoughts return to Gerard and Lukas. What was it Gerard said, about a Sooke cabin?

  “Have you been to Sooke recently?” I ask Quinn.

  She licks some whipped cream off her spoon and shakes her head. “It’s been a few years. Bruce and I went out to the potholes.” Her eyes narrow. “Why?”

  “Oh, well, Daphne Dane’s got a cottage out there.”

  Quinn scoops out another spoonful of yellow mousse. “And?” she says. “What’s going on? Why are you so preoccupied with this cookie lady?”

  “I’m not preoccupied,” I say. “Just kind of . . .” I struggle to find the right words. “A little worried. Mostly about my mom.” I think of our most recent conversation: my mom still twittering on about Daphne’s ominous cards. “She wants to file a Missing Person Report . . .”

  My best friend licks her lips. “Well, if both you and Ivy feel anxious, maybe there’s something to it.” She chews on her cheek, studying me. “Your mom’s definitely psychic, and you’ve got a bit of it. Maybe you could learn to . . .” She shrugs. “You know? Enhance it.”

  I swallow another mouthful of crème brûlée. How does Gerard make it so smooth and creamy? As always, I’m amazed by Quinn’s enthusiasm for my mom’s New Age mumbo jumbo. Crystal therapy. Color healing. Herbal lotions and potions. Quinn’s a scientist. She ought to know better. Quinn knows me well enough to know how I feel about psychics, including and especially my mother.

  Seeing my scowl, Quinn laughs. “Ivy’s instincts have been right before.” She scrapes out the last of her mousse. “And so have yours,” she says, pointedly.

  I nod. Instincts. I’m okay with that word, and all my instincts say there’s something wrong with the Danes. Too much money and too many grubby hands hoping to reach into the giant pot of Daphne’s fortune.

  Sooke isn’t far, less than an hour’s drive westward. It’s practically a bedroom community now, part of Victoria’s ever-expanding suburbs.

  I’ll call my mom tonight and see if she knows how to find Daphne’s cabin. Is it on the coast? If Josh and I are going on a boat cruise, we may as well have a destination.

  CHAPTER 8:

  PORTENTS

  My mom’s phone rings twice before she answers in her most chirpy, professional voice: “Ivy Wong’s psychic services. How may I help you?”

  I roll my eyes. Shouldn’t she already know? “Hey, it’s me, Mom.”

  “Toby!” She sounds pleasantly surprised to hear from me. “How are you?”

  “Good. Sorry to call so late,” I say, although it’s actually only ten-past-nine. Quinn scurried out of the restaurant at nine on the dot, desperate to get home to Abby.

  I’m in the back of a cab, heading up Fort Street, past rows of twee faux-Tudor shop fronts displaying antiques and old-lady knickknacks. I’m tipsy enough not to mind the cabbie’s Classic Rock radio station. Every second song is the Eagles. Welcome to Victoria—you can check out any time, but damn, it’s hard to leave.

  “Oh you know me,” says my mom, which I do indeed. “It’s still early.” My mother is both a night owl and an early bird but likes a good, long after-lunch nap. “I’m just listening to Joni Mitchell and cleansing my crystals.”

  I nod, picturing the scene perfectly: my mother’s vast collection of minerals—rough, shiny, faceted, smooth—spread across her kitchen table, my mom soaking the stones in spring water, then drying and polishing them with a silk cloth while thinking positive thoughts, before setting them out in the moonlight. As a kid, I found her crystals mesmerizing. I really believed in their magic.

  “What’s up?” says my mom.

  I tell her about my dinner with Quinn tonight.

  “I miss our Friday nights,” says my mom, referring to our pre-Abby ritual of dinner at her place on Friday evenings, when Bruce works the night shift. “How is she?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “She’s tired and seems kind of . . .” The cab’s radio crackles. “A little down,” I admit.

  “The first few months with a new baby are exhausting,” says my mother. “I’m going to call her tomorrow. Maybe stop by, see if I can help.”

  “That’d be good. I offered too.”

  “Well, she’s probably scared to let the baby out of her sight.”

  “It sure seems that way,” I agree. There’s a plop of a crystal dropping into water. “Have you heard from Daphne yet?”

  My mom sighs. “No.” Her voice tightens. “I know Colin and his lovely young partner said not to worry but I still feel . . .” Another plop. “I think she’s in trouble.”

  “The restaurant we went to,” I say. “Is owned by Daphne’s son-in-law, Gerard.” I recount the conversation I overheard between Gerard and Lukas. “Lukas was there to borrow money.” I sway a little as my taxi rounds a corner.

  My mom’s voice hardens. “Those kids! Daphne doesn’t say much, but I know she’s at her wits end. Isobel and her husband had another restaurant that went bust. And Lukas . . .” Water sloshes. “I don’t think he’s ever worked a day in his life.”

  I struggle to remember what Lukas does. “I thought he’s an artist.”

  Another plop. “Even wonderful artists have trouble earning a living,” says my mom. “And as for him . . .” More sloshing. “He’s like a little kid. He only moved out last year, after Daphne insisted.”

  “You ever been to her cottage in Sooke?”

  Joni Mitchell warbles in the background. The Eagles are competing in the foreground. “Mmmm, years ago,” says my mother. “Why?”

  “Gerard thought Daphne might be there.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” says my mom.

  “Why not?” My taxi slows to turn into my street. I click open my purse to find my wallet.

  “She and Walt used to go there when the kids were little, but it hasn’t been kept up. I can’t imagine she’d want to stay there. She was planning to have it torn down and rebuilt, maybe next year. Either that or sell it.”

  “Hold on a sec,” I say. I count out the right change, then hand it to the driver, an older, smiley South Asian man who hasn’t said a word the whole trip. We nod and grin at each other. I climb out and slam the door. “I’m just getting home,” I tell my mom. “Did you know about Walt’s coin collection?”

  “He did collect coins for a time,” she says, sounding surprised. “I remember him showing me some book, all about antique money. He had some extremely rare coins, I recall. But he lost interest, eventually. Walt was like that. Full throttle into some obsession, then a total change of direction. It was tropical fish for a while, then Vespa scooters. And those gold coins.” More crystals plop. “Why? What about them?”

  “Gerard said Walt’s coins are in the Sooke cabin,” I say. “In an old safe. Apparently Daphne forgot they were there. Isobel found out and got angry.”

  “Oh,” says my mom. Another little plop. She sounds troubled. “When was this?”

  “Just before Daphne dis . . . left,” I say. Do I really believe Daphne has disappeared? That she’s in trouble?

  On my quiet street, my heels ring loud on the cement path leading to the front lobby. A four-story, flat-roofed block on the edge of Oak Bay, my building is full of retirees. Judging from the lack of lights, the majority are already in bed. Unless they’re all out getting fleeced at the seniors’ bingo.

  I dig my keys out of my purse only to find there’s no need—the door’s been propped open with a brick to allow Mrs. Van Dortmund’s incontinent cat to get in and out.

  “Do you know how to get there?” I ask my mom, pausing to kick the brick out of the way. I
lock the door. Oak Bay’s safe but still. Judging from the smell of cat pee in the lobby, Mrs. Van D’s cat isn’t making it outside anyway. As usual, the lobby is tropical sweltering.

  In honor of the looming holidays, someone has stuck an ancient artificial Christmas tree in one corner, held together by molting tinsel garlands. The tree is surrounded by a scattering of fake, mall-style presents. Surveying this sad scene is a squashed angel that looks like Chucky.

  “Out where?” asks my mom. I hear the gentle plop of more crystals.

  “To Daphne’s summer cabin.”

  “Oh. It’s out on the water, past East Sooke Park. Why?”

  “I’m going out on the boat with Josh tomorrow.”

  There’s a slosh of water and the sharp sound of something striking a hard surface. “Oh dear. I dropped my fluorite palm stone.”

  “Is it okay?” I know that stone—a smooth, round cabochon that fits perfectly into your palm, its domed surface like a crystal ball full of swirling green, blue, white, and violet, supposed to neutralize negative energy and boost concentration.

  “It’s fine,” she says. I can picture her cupping the stone as lovingly as she would a baby bird. She takes a deep breath. “So, another boat trip.” Her voice is tight with trepidation. “Not too many bad memories?”

  “It’ll be fine,” I say. I stop to check my mailbox, then wonder why I bothered: bill, bill, junk mail. A red and green flyer full of “Holiday Savings.” “No,” I correct myself. I toss the flyer into the recycling bin. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Well, that’s . . . nice,” says my mother.

  I grit my teeth and head for the stairs. Is my mom’s hesitation merely linked to what happened in September: me and Josh being attacked on the Great Escape? We both ended up in the hospital, which was obviously scary.

  Or is my mom, like Quinn, hoping I’ll pass up on smoking hot Josh and choose adorable, dependable Colin Destin? I think my mom likes Josh. The few times they’ve met they’ve acted like old friends. I wish I could ask. But what if I don’t like her answer?